


How to Make Friends

by profmeteor



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003)
Genre: Mildly Dubious Consent, Other, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profmeteor/pseuds/profmeteor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Mikey met his pet, Fifi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Make Friends

Mikey’s on his way back from skating in his personal half-pipe when he finds her—or, to be more accurate, when she finds him. He’s giddy, half-dancing, half-walking, humming as he goes, thinking about how he’ll brag to Raph and Donnie about the epic shuvit he pulled off—heck, Leo and Splinter and April and Casey, too, if he can sit them down long enough to give the thrilling play-by-play. Then, as he hops over a waterway, he’s struck by the very definite, very bad feeling that someone is following him.

Mikey goes still, listening hard, checking for out-of-place shadows, but there’s nothing to see. Just being paranoid, he decides, and with a shrug goes back to his humming and jiving. Only—a few steps later, the feeling’s back, stronger this time, and when Mikey whips around, the water is rippling. Mikey swallows. “O-kay, creepy dude who’s totally not following me—I think it’s important for you to know you’re about to face the greatest nunchuck master this side of the galaxy, so, uh, less creepy-crawly, more going away and living a fulfilling life in the suburbs, got it?”

No response from the sewers.

“I’m gonna take that as a ‘got it.’” A little creeped out, hoping that Leo’s decided to spring impromptu training on him, Mikey turns again, walking slower this time, humming to prove he’s not creeped out but doing so under his breath. Mikey shifts his skateboard so it’s tucked higher up his arm and makes sure his nunchaku are loose on his belt, just in case he needs them.

This time, the water splashes audibly—Mikey spins on his heel, skateboard in one hand, nunchaku in the other, and spots a massive eye staring back at him from the water.

Mikey shrieks and recoils—that’s definitely not Leo, oh crap, he’s dead, he’s gonna get eaten by the sewer cyclops and no one’s ever gonna know about his awesome shuvit and—the eye rears up, the monstrous being lurches up from the water, fangs bared, and—

And shrieks back.

Mikey hesitates. It has a huge eye, a huge mouth, and weird tentacles—that it’s holding exactly the same way Mikey’s holding his arms, as if shielding itself. Mikey lowers his arms. The monster mimics him, shrinking in the water until only its black head is visible.

“Whoa,” Mikey says. “You are some gnarly-lookin’ calamari.”

The monster squirms, indecisive. One of its long tentacles emerges from the water, sliding across the stone walkway, hesitates by Mikey’s foot, then prods at his skateboard.

Fascinated, Mikey crouches down and tucks his nunchaku back on his belt. “Where’d you come from, lil guy? Pretty sure dudes like you don’t belong in New York City. Then again, neither do I…” The monster surges out of the water just enough for Mikey to see the golden glint at its neck. Just like a dog collar, and there’s even a name stamped on it: Fifi. “Fifi, huh?” The tentacle works its way up the skateboard to wrap itself around Mikey’s wrist; it’s cool and slick, the grip exploratory. Mikey holds his arm out. “Fifi...so that makes you a dudette. Where’s your owner, huh, girl?”

The monster grumbles, the noise vibrating through Mikey and sending ripples through the water. Her tentacle slides further up his arm—coils around, up to his shoulder, higher, sliding up his neck, exploring the planes of his face. Mikey chuckles. “Aww, you’re so friendly! That’s a good Fifi.” He pats the tentacle; it’s kind of rubbery, not unpleasant to the touch. A part of him is still pinging danger, Will Robinson, danger! but it’s quieter, now, the result of the sharp white teeth in Fifi’s mouth and the pressure so close to his neck. There’s something tentative about her, like she’s lost—she must be scared. Maybe her owner dumped her down here in the hopes she would starve.

Mikey rests his cheek against her tentacle. He always thought it’d be cool to have an alien friend-slash-pet, kinda like E.T., something just as strange as he is. Maybe Splinter won’t mind. She’s a lot bigger than a cat, but she might even make a good sidekick on the streets—mowing down thugs with her razor-sharp teeth, crushing getaway cars with her massive tentacles.

As he mulls over this, another tentacle slides over his foot and wraps around his ankle. [They consider each other quietly—then Mikey smiles and opens his mouth to speak. Before he can get a word out, Fifi [lashes] out of the water with a deafening roar. Mikey screeches, drops his skateboard. Before he can do more than that, Fifi scoops him up, lashing a thick tentacle around his midsection and hoisting him up into the air.]

“Good Fifi—good octopus, don’t kill Mikey—don’t—“ She shakes him and he screams, flailing. “Don’t—treat Mikey—like a—rag doll—Fifi!”

Fifi roars again; dust and pebbles shake loose from the ceiling and walls; Mikey’s ears ring. Oh, shell, she’s going to eat him, or crush him—tentacles are everywhere, wrapping his arms and legs, pulling him closer to that gaping mouth, and what a way to go, raw turtle guzzled down by mutated calamari.

“Fifi, don’t eat daddy, that’s a good girl—good Fifi, nice Fifi—“ Mikey struggles against the pull of her tentacles, but it’s no use—she’s massive, and strong, and he’ll pull his arms out of his shell before he manages to pull free.

But then something settles—Fifi’s thrashing goes still, and when Mikey cracks an eye open, finds Fifi watching him with a wary, curious look. Mikey is slick, dripping with the viscous ooze she seems to produce, and her tentacles—how many, six? Seven?—are still wrapped so tightly around him that she’s probably cutting off blood flow to important areas.

“Uh—Fifi?” Mikey ventures. “You’re not—gonna hold a grudge about the calamari comment, are you?”

Fifi rumbles softly, the noise vibrating through Mikey. He shivers.

The tentacles relax, slowly, uncoiling, sliding over Mikey’s body. It’s familiar and strange at the same time; goosebumps rise on Mikey’s arms. There’s something gentle about the way the tentacles slide up and down his body, rolling over the hard expanse of his plastron and shell, up his calves and thighs, probing at his mask and lips.

Mikey swallows. He’s read stuff like this. He wonders if he should be wearing a skirt. “Nice Fifi,” he says. “Just—put me down, now, and I’ll take you home, okay? I’ll feed you and give you a bath and whoa, um, hang on, that’s—bad-touch, Fifi.” One of her tentacles prods between his legs, feeling along the concealed slit of his cloaca. Mikey squirms and tries to close his legs. His face is hot. He can’t tell if he wants this, if it’s something that’s okay to want. “B-bad-touch, you know what that means, right?”

If Fifi does, which seems unlikely, she doesn’t seem to care. The tentacles at his thighs tighten as he tries again to close them; with a disgruntled grumble that sends shivers through Mikey, she spreads his legs.

“Um,” Mikey says, at a loss for words for perhaps the first time in his life. He looks at the roof; his stomach is in knots, his face burning. Fifi’s tentacle drifts across his cloaca, once, twice, and then she seems to lose interest, dragging back toward his shell. Mikey shudders and tugs at his thighs again—he’s exposed, aware of his cock inside of himself, of his pulse between his legs, the tingling at his slit. A part of him—a tiny part, that is—wants her to go back to her curious prodding down there, with her slick tentacle that’s almost like a tongue.

She traces his face, his lips—and when Mikey opens his mouth to gasp, she presses it into his mouth, slow, seeking. Mikey whimpers around the tentacle; this has definitely gone to a weird place, but Mikey would be the first to say weird isn’t bad, per se, just—weird.

She tests along his teeth, briefly, but she seems the most interested in his tongue. Perhaps thinking that it’s a tentacle, she strokes it, tries to turn it over, rubs at it in a way that’s a little too much like fucking his face. Mikey starts to pant through his nose—he hopes she doesn’t test the back of his throat and decide to explore that, because that would be beyond weird, and maybe deadly. He’s not sure of the mechanics of all that.

She paves meandering paths across his shell and plastron; she seems interested in his belt until she realizes it’s not a part of him. Mikey’s whole body is over-sensitive, every slick shift another jolt through him; his cock presses at his cloaca, half-hard, and the slit of his cloaca is pliant. If she doesn’t stop, he’s going to drop, and she’d probably find that fascinating and go back to touching him and he would never admit it in a million years, but that’s kind of what he wants.

He tries to talk around the tentacle in his mouth, tries to tell her to knock it off, that it’s been fun but that’s enough, but the vibration of his choked mumbling seems to just spur her on. She grinds the tentacle against his tongue, pushes it further and further until she’s filling his mouth and he’s gagging, swallowing against her, making choked little noises. By the time a tentacle wanders back between his legs, he’s a lost cause—she brushes at the swollen slit of his cloaca and he unsheathes in a heartbeat, the heavy weight of his cock rubbing against her tentacle. She stops at that, perfectly still in his mouth, on his legs, his arms, and tilts her massive head, leans to stare down at him. Mikey blushes and tries to turn away.

Fifi grouses at him and tightens her grip, forcing his legs wider, pressing him flat on his back. A tentacle slides up the length of his cock and Mikey groans, the noise choked by the tentacle in his mouth. It’s too much all at once—a sensory overload—and when the slithery tentacle wraps around his cock, squeezing, just as firm as the ones on his thighs, Mikey comes like a lightbulb going out with a pop, shuddering with it and moaning around the tentacle at his throat.

This surprises her—she pulls him close, inspecting him as his come splatters on his stomach. Trembling in the aftermath of his orgasm, Mikey tries to talk again—he wants to explain himself, to explain that this is all kind of weird for him but he’s actually not that into tentacle monsters from outer space, except apparently he is, and that no, his spunk isn’t dangerous or anything, just kind of gross—but Fifi doesn’t relent, merely peering at Mikey curiously, turning him one way and the other as he struggles to catch his breath.

When his cock sheathes again, she actually tilts him back to see where it’s gone. Mikey laughs, dizzy and feeling pretty good about everything even though he’s reached the point post-orgasm where he’d normally be going oh, god, did I really just—? He tries to work Fifi’s tentacle out of his mouth without much success until he nips her, not too hard—hard enough, apparently, for her to yank out of his mouth with a snarl.

Mikey coughs. “Yeah,” he says, “that happens. It’s kinda fra-jill-ee,” pronouncing it wrong on purpose to mask his self-consciousness. “Y’know, delicate equipment.” Fifi prods gently at his cloaca, which is still sensitive, and Mikey’s hips buck. “Okay, Fifi, that’s enough—playtime’s ov—“ Mikey hisses in a sharp breath as Fifi presses in, spreading his cloaca with her thick tentacle, feeling around until she presses at the soft head of his cock. “Bad Fifi! That’s sensitive!”

He starts to struggle again, bucking and thrashing—his nerves are jangled, a mish-mash of pleasure that’s almost too strong, a borderline pain that’s making his whole body clench. Fifi eases back out of him, slowly, and Mikey sighs in relief, relaxing into her firm grip. “Not so fast,’ he says. “I don’t know what your alien dudes are like but I need ti—mmph.” Fifi presses a tentacle back into his mouth; resigned to his fate, Mikey sighs and sucks at it, wondering as he does if it does anything for Fifi.

She rumbles again, louder, baring her teeth as she does, and the vibration lulls through Mikey. Her tentacles begin to undulate over him, massaging and stroking him, a different curiosity from before. She pokes carefully between his legs and less carefully into his mouth—Mikey gags again as she fills his mouth, but he’s getting used to it, even if his jaw is aching.

The tentacles on his arms shift, drawing his hands over his head; one tentacle slithers away, and the remaining one wraps around both of his wrists, twining about his forearms until he can barely move his arms. Mikey’s losing track of where the tentacles are—one on each leg, one in his mouth, two wrapped around his body to support him, at least two more massaging up and down his body, and one nestled between his legs, carefully rubbing his cloaca.

Then, with a low rumbling grumble, she pushes her slick tentacle inside of him, pushing deep. Mikey groans and arches—he’s less sensitive, now, but it’s still too much, a stretch that he’s not ready for, like she’ll rip him apart. He struggles, pulling his wrists and legs, but Fifi doesn’t even seem to notice, keeping him pinned right where she wants him. The tip of her tentacle eases against his soft cock and tries to pull it out, struggling against his body, and Mikey whines into her tentacle.

If she keeps this up, she’s gonna break him—so Mikey unsheathes his cock, surprised at how good it feels to drop against the powerful sinew of her tentacle. Fifi makes a noise like a purr; the tentacle inside of Mikey shifts, pushes in deeper, grinding against him. The purring goes on and on, a constant rumble that vibrates through Mikey’s shell and trembles in his bones. Another tentacle slithers between his legs and wraps around his half-hard cock.

Mikey’s already climbing back up, not quite ready for round two but eager to be ready. He twists his wrists against the binds of her tentacle and groans when she tightens her grip in response—his fingers prickle, going numb. His legs aren’t any better—he can’t even spread them wider, her grip as firm as steel. mikey swallows around the tentacle in his mouth, swallows again when it shifts, and all of Fifi seems to surge at the same time, both tentacles inside him thrusting deep—into his throat, so he chokes, and his cloaca, so he bucks and moans.

Fifi pauses, her tentacles deep inside of him, impaling him on both ends, and then with an aggressive rumble starts to grind inside of him. The tentacle around his cocks queezes, too tight, the suckers wet and leaving marks on him. She seems to move as one, groping, exploring, fucking him with unsteady flexible motions.

Pleasure builds like a surging sea, pinging up and down his spine, focused in his gut and between his legs. It’s a rush at the back of his skull, a dizzying buzz that’s making everything fuzzy. Mikey starts to fuck himself on Fifi, [short, desperate thrusts.] The whole thing is reaching maximum absurdity, or maybe it’s already maxed out, and that’s good, that’s perfect; Mikey lives for the over-the-top and the ridiculous, the takes-an-hour-to-explain-and-still-doesn’t-quite-make-sense-and-never-will. Whoever abandoned her is missing out, Mikey thinks as his cock stiffens, harder with each awkward thrust until it’s flush against his plastron, and straining in the [solid grasp] of her tentacle.

Fifi’s purring non-stop as she fucks him—and everything lights up; Mikey is glowing, every nerve on fire, and this is so much better than jerking it alone in his room, this is luxurious and slow and thorough—Mikey didn’t think it was possible to be fucked like this, taken on all sides, his throat full and a tentacle so thick and deep inside of him that he can hardly function, like his whole purpose is to grind his hips down on Fifi and let himself be pounded. He’s thought about being the center of an orgy—the best kind of center-of-attention—but this is beyond that; it’s like nothing else matters or ever will, like he’s the focus of the whole universe.

When she bends over him, fangs bared, he can see his reflection in her huge, glassy eye, distorted, but he gets the jist. He’s a wreck, drenched in viscous alien gunk and sweat and come and taken on all sides, flush, a helpless captive. His cock twitches—his arousal surges—he’s so close, he’s going to burst, he’s panting like he’s been training for hours and he twists against her hold, bucks, ruts himself on her, and then—then, in a white burst of pleasure he peaks, coming harder than he ever has, and it keeps going, so long that tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

He comes down slowly, still shaking, so dizzy and breathless that he can’t think straight. Things don’t reorient right away—it’s possible that he zonks out, lulled by the rhythmic purrs and the steady undulation of her tentacles. When he finally comes around, she’s still holding him, thrusting slowly. At least the tentacle in his mouth has drifted out, so he can pop his jaw and spit out the strange bitter taste of her.

He’s rocked by her for who-knows-how-long—it feels like forever, a strange time warp that’s not quite erotic anymore but somehow more personal for it. It’s almost like bonding, like sharing blood or curling close under a blanket during a storm. He wants to say something—his throat is sore, but still—but he doesn’t know where he’d even begin.

Slowly, tentacle by tentacle, Fifi retreats. She slips wetly out of his stretched cloaca first, then relaxes his legs until he can close them. She lowers him to the ground and sets him down as delicately as someone handling china. She releases his arms, his legs, and then his body, [unwrapping slowly]. Mikey doesn’t move right away, flexing his numb fingers and toes, letting himself adjust to the reality of his situation. Fifi waits, patient, curling her tentacles in a way that’s reminiscent of pleasant old ladies folding their arms during teatime.

In the silence of the tunnel, Mikey laughs, so suddenly that it surprises him. Once he’s started, he can’t stop—it’s so crazy and weird and amazing, and he’s a limp ball of turtle who can’t even sit up, and she’s so expectant, like she’s waiting for him to return the favor or something.

Coughing and gasping between giggles, Mikey sits up, a painstaking process that sends the tunnel spinning. Talk about a head rush. There are delicate, dark bruises on his legs and arms - no way he can explain those to his brothers.

At length, Mikey stands and brushes himself off. He clears his throat. “Well,” he says, throat full of gravel. “Let’s go home, girl.”

*

When Fifi is done with Raph, he staggers out of the room, covered in come and ooze and bruises. There’s something wild to him, edged and adrenaline-drunk. Mikey sits up and flashes him a bright smile.

“What d’you think, Raph? Think Leo’ll okay her?”

Raph collapses on the couch next to him; Mikey can feel his exhausted trembling from here. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He glances at Mikey without really looking at him, his gaze skating over Mikey’s legs and stomach. He swallows hard. Puts a hand to his head. “Maybe—maybe we oughta keep this one a secret.”


End file.
